


on the night side of the earth

by orphan_account



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Compulsion, Dom!Elias, Elias is constantly horny on main, Light BDSM, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Murder makes Elias especially horny on main, Of the Archivist Question variety, Office Sex, They talk about fate and entropy while they're fucking, Topping from the Bottom, is anyone surprised at this point, sub!Jon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-22
Updated: 2018-11-22
Packaged: 2019-08-27 09:04:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,268
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16699516
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: In which Elias pays Jon a visit and confessions are made.





	on the night side of the earth

**Author's Note:**

> Grateful thanks to lontradiction for the idea and to him, Kyros, tea & Teak for support.

            The Archivist woke screaming. The first sensation he was able to catalogue was the sound of his own voice hoarse and desperate, calling out without any input from his conscious mind. The second was the pain to which his sympathetic nervous system was reacting—the feeling of intrusion from the multiplicity of tiny wounds all across his body, and the sensation of abrasion as something that had been forced in was agonizingly removed. Third, the sight of bright ceiling lights and a form in a rumpled suit looking down at him.

            “I’m afraid the removal of the worms isn’t going to be a pleasant process,” the Head of the Institute said. The usual worried furrow was digging into the center of his forehead, but this time, presumably, it wasn’t just a question of funding.

            The next piece of data the Archivist gathered arrived in the form of a coughing spasm that tugged him away from the EMTs who were trying to remove the worms, doubled him over, brought his head down between his knees and squeezed his lungs painfully tight.

            “Sorry about that,” the Head said, sounding awkward and as if he were apologizing for making the Archivist work overtime unexpectedly, rather than for near-death by worms and carbon dioxide poisoning. “It took me a bit too long to reach the manual operation for the fire suppression system—”

            The Archivist stared at him incredulously. “Do you really expect me to believe that?” he coughed out, something about the recent ordeal giving the words an odd resonance.

            The Head’s face changed suddenly, sharp surprise and something—dark and ancient behind his eyes. “I did,” he said shortly, blinked, put a hand to his throat. “I am sorry,” he said, after another moment. “But you’re doing well. Carry on like that and you may actually be able to get some answers from me in the not-too-distant future, Mr. Bouchard.”

~

            “Did you kill Gertrude Robinson? And Leitner?”

            Jon’s breath hitched slightly at the question. “I did,” he said quietly, after a moment. He seemed to sag inside his slightly-too-big jacket, something between—

            “Are you ashamed of it?”

            “No.” The answer, this time, was steadier.

            “Regretful?”

            “That it was necessary.” Jon shifted slightly in his seat. “I’m—thankful you’ve developed your abilities enough to ask me for the truth, Elias.”

            “Hm.” Elias tapped his lower lip thoughtfully. He almost fancied he could taste the compulsion on his tongue. “Why was it necessary?” he asked, watching with interest as Jon’s fists clenched slightly but despite the fact that he usually could not stop himself from pacing back and forth whenever they had a meeting, he remained determinedly seated.

            “Gertrude was trying to destroy the Archives,” Jon answered, almost too quickly. His fingers drummed against the desk, and Elias, interested, began to circle him slowly; Jon ignored his movement, staring down at his hands. “Leitner had helped her. The Eye—wanted them dead, and I could hardly trust them after that, could I?” He blinked rapidly, reached up and took his glasses off, cleaning them. “I—it—it was quite easy to get the morphine, honestly, and I—don’t believe it was painful—”

            Elias paused behind him and leaned forward, breathing on Jon’s ear as he stammered. “Why are you trying so hard not to move?”

            Jon jerked in his seat. “I—” He shut his eyes, breathing slowly. Elias’s own eyes tracked the crumpled lines of Jon’s suit, and down to his trousers—which he clearly did not iron—to the obvious tent between his legs. “Do you find the questioning titillating?” Elias asked with amusement and more than a little avidity.

            “Yes. Don’t do that,” Jon said irritably.

            “I’m only doing as you told me to,” Elias replied. He could feel his face stretching in a delighted grin. Who would have guessed the ascetic Head of the Magnus Institute could be thrown off balance by a few innocent questions?

            “I did not tell you to—enjoy it,” Jon replied stiffly. The tone of his voice was belied by the red flush spreading across his cheekbones and the way he continued to shift uncomfortably in his chair.

            “I rather think you’re the one enjoying it,” Elias told him.

            Jon swiveled round in his seat and glared up at him. “I am your employer, I don’t—”

            “Are you _not_ enjoying it?” Elias asked, tracing a lazy finger down the back of Jon’s neck, and— _oh_ —watching Jon struggle against the compulsion, watching every motion only serve to rub cloth against increasingly sensitive areas, watching him finally suck his lip into his mouth and bite down hard.

            “I—am,” Jon bit out. “But it’s not—it’s not—it’s hardly appropriate.”

            Pulling his chair out from the desk, Elias maneuvered himself in front of Jon. Disheveled, flushed, losing his typical quiet composure, he was everything Elias had caught himself daydreaming of during long stints at the Archive. “What would you say,” he said, and he could feel the smile widening across his face, “if, ignoring all questions of propriety, I pinned you down in this chair and rode you, right here, right now?”

            Jon stopped breathing for a long, silent, taut moment; then he shuddered desperately, head to foot, and one hand trembled so hard all of his fingers tapped a desperate arrhythmic cadence on the desk. “Fuck,” jerked its way out of his mouth, followed by, “Elias.”

            Running his fingers across the side of Jon’s cheek and down over the rapidly-thrumming blood pulsing through his throat, Elias felt his own breathing change. He’d been hard for the past five minutes, of course, but it hadn’t manifested in his breath until now. “Would you beg?” he asked, tugging deceptively gently at the compulsion, and Jon looked up at him with eyes that were wide and dark and dilated.

            Jon swallowed convulsively as Elias reached out, took his hands, and put them on his belt. “Yes,” he whispered, still trembling.

            “Oh, very good.” Elias threaded his fingers through Jon’s hair and tipped his face up to kiss him, meticulously tracing his lips across Jon’s to identify the subtle pattern of indentations and grooves. They were surprisingly soft, he thought; somehow he had expected the perpetually-exhausted Head of the Magnus Institute to have chapped and broken lips, but they were almost plush and moved beneath his, if somewhat reluctantly.

            “I still,” Jon managed to gasp, although his hands were working at Elias’s belt, “I still question the propriety—”

            “Oh, Jon,” Elias replied softly, biting down on Jon’s lip hard enough to draw a harsh gasp from him, “you are entirely too concerned about ethics for a man who just confessed to two murders, don’t you think?”

            Jon’s hands tugged his trousers down roughly, though not before Elias had palmed the lubricant he had thoughtfully slipped into his pocket before the confrontation. “There is a difference,” he said stiffly. “Between actions performed for the sake of one’s Master, and—”

            Elias straddled him in the chair, bent forward and bit the side of his neck. “Are you saying our Master doesn’t like to watch?” he asked gently. Jon opened his mouth and then closed it again resignedly.

            “Well,” he said finally, his mouth quirking up at the corner. “You certainly have a very different style from Gertrude.”

            Humming in pleasure, Elias pushed the lube into his hand, even as he reached down to undo Jon’s belt. Jon took a breath, not quite surprise, but not quite—not. “I wondered why you put that in your pocket before—” Elias cut him off by grinding viciously down on top of him. “Elias— _fuck_ —”

            “Go on, Jon, I’m sure you want to.” Elias occupied himself by freeing Jon’s erection and causing his breath to stutter and his eyelids to flutter desperately.

            “Then perhaps you would do me the courtesy of letting me have a moment free of interruptions,” Jon snarled, raking one hand down Elias’s back. Elias jerked at the hot-pain sensation of his nails. “Thank you, _Archivist_ ,” Jon said as he shivered and settled, unmoving, against Jon’s front, their erections both trapped between their stomachs.

            Elias had rather expected hesitance from Jon when he slid a lubricant-coated finger inside him, but he realized his mistake almost immediately. Jon was neither too slow nor too fast; he moved his finger briskly enough to just begin to burn, and after a moment or two he had Elias clenching his fists in Jon’s jacket, trying not to shake.

            “I am not as inexperienced as you seem to think,” Jon told him sternly as he added a second finger. “Although admittedly my experience is primarily secondhand.”

            A third finger made Elias twitch and swear and bite his lip to stop himself from coming right then. “Enough,” he gasped, and he reached between them to tug at Jon’s silky-smooth erection, shifting them both until he was on his knees above Jon. Jon jerked soundlessly beneath him.

            “Give me the condom you have in your other pocket,” Jon said, sounding faintly resigned as he withdrew his fingers with a soft, slick noise. Elias smirked as he pulled it out and pressed it into Jon’s hand. He was mildly impressed when Jon’s hands did not shake as he rolled it on, and Jon looked up at him from beneath dark lashes with a somewhat challenging expression. Elias took a great deal of pleasure in wiping the impression off by yanking Jon’s cock upright and sinking down on it in one smooth motion.

            “You are— _damn_ —infuriating—” Jon choked out, his hands tightening about Elias’s elbows.

            “Surely if you’re displeased with my performance, you can simply fire me,” Elias said, rather breathless.

            “It’s not—” Jon’s voice came out hoarser than Elias suspected he wanted, and he felt the quiver of muscles beneath him as the Head of the Institute tried not to thrust up into him. “It’s not so simple a matter to find someone who is a usable Archivist.”

            Elias felt his lips quirking at the implied compliment as he levered himself up and down again, slowly, slower than he might normally have liked, but he was enjoying watching Jon’s desperate attempt to reassert some level of control; the quick flutter and twitch of his cheek muscles was deliciously exhilarating. “What makes a usable Archivist?” he asked, looping the compulsion gently around Jon’s throat, and then, with one swift mental flick, twisting it viciously.

            Jon’s eyes bulged and he spat a word so quickly that it dropped from his lips a meaningless slurry of fricatives and vowels. Another sound, something like a mewl, came next; his hands slammed down on the tops of Elias’s thighs, pulling him down so sharply that Elias himself gasped as stars flickered brightly across the backs of his eyelids, before Jon managed to speak again, “ _Fear_ ,” came out hoarse and shaking. “The desire to know, the fear of the knowledge you will find, and the inability to stop yourself from finding it all the same. A loop of emotion for our Master to devour.” He bent his head forward into Elias’s chest, his nails ten bright spots of pain digging into Elias’s thighs. “Our path was laid out long ago, and the only choice we are left with is how we die.” He took a moment to glance up at Elias through hooded lids, his mouth twisting into a bitter, crooked line. “Still pleased with your performance assessment?”

            Sliding his hand up through Jon’s sweaty hair, Elias grasped and twisted, sharp and rough, pulling Jon’s head back to stare up at him. “We were born in a universe with a unidirectional arrow of time,” he returned. “The battle’s futile no matter who the foe is.” He swiped his thumb carelessly across Jon’s lower lip, taking careful note of the sensation of soft tissue sliding loosely across the pad of it, and Jon moaned brokenly for the first time. “Oh, god, _please_ ,” he managed, his voice coming out in a high desperate whine.

            Shivering with pleasure, Elias wrapped his hand around Jon’s loose tie and jerked him up, increasing his pace, fucking himself onto Jon’s cock till his eyes rolled up in his head, till every motion sent fizzing exquisite pain-pleasure from a point deep inside him to the point of his own erection. Jon choked out his name in something that sounded like a sob, and it was that sound, cutting through the haze of _data-experience-input—the heat of Jon’s cock, stretching him open, his hands, clammy with sweat, clutching at Elias’s arse, the rustle and strain of cloth as they moved, the rubbing irritation of the chair beneath Elias’s naked knees and a thousand million billion other sensations, as if Elias could track the pathway of each individual neuron feeding its tiny electrical impulse into his central nervous system—_ the word _Elias_ drew it all back together again, drew it into a holistic picture of Jon, Jon, _Jon_ , swearing and desperate beneath him—and Elias heard his own broken noise spilling from his throat as he came untouched, spattering fluid across Jon’s face and shirt.

            “Ah, _ah,_ fuck _, fuck, Elias_ ,” Jon swore, and he came hard as well, cock twitching inside his Archivist, hands rough and vise-like on his hips.

            Somehow, Elias kept his trembling knees from collapsing, holding himself up with sheer stubbornness, as Jon sagged slightly, his face pressing into Elias’s chest.

            “This—this was hardly—I didn’t intend—” he muttered.

            Elias put one thin finger under his chin and tipped his face up to look. “Ah,” he said, smiling, barely containing himself from wriggling with glee, “but you see, I _did_.”

**Author's Note:**

> Title from a quote by Sylvia Plath.


End file.
